


Mending of Hearts

by honeybun, Sabo (Sabou)



Series: Vacation in South Italy [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hopeless Romantics, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War, Vacation, veraverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28172997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo
Summary: Lovino decides that at one time or another in one's life, you must begin to live for yourself. And when Lovino had reached that conclusion, he lifts Antonio’s hand from his chest, having crept underneath his linen shirt, and kisses his knuckles, the cool metal of the gold ring there.‘I’m taking us away.‘
Relationships: South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: Vacation in South Italy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063904
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Mending of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [George deValier](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=George+deValier).



> This story is embedded in George deValier‘s ‚Veraverse‘.
> 
> If you have not read either Bésame Mucho or Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart you might be confused with the references in this story.

Lovino thumbed away sweat from his brow, lifting his hand to open the buttons of his collar a little more, snapping the shirt to and fro in an attempt to circulate some air. 

Sicily was so warm in August, and the humidity rolled in with the warm waves of the Mediterranean. The car they’d taken from all the way in Northern Italy had seemed to give up the ghost a little and was chugging along spewing out smoke and dripping oil. They’d stayed one night at a friend in Naples, Lovino carrying their bags in and frowning at Antonio whose smiles were a little too strained, whose hand cupped at his side tenderly. 

He’d crowded against him in the bathroom. 

‘Lovi, I’m afraid your friends might not be too keen on you ravaging me here,’ purred Antonio, acting as always like nothing had changed. 

Lovino frowned and let his broad, tanned palms carefully brush against Antonio’s side. He winced. 

‘We could always take a train or boat,’ Lovino says for the one hundredth time, eyebrows furrowing together, ‘The roads are always covered in dust and grit, potholes everywhere from tanks…’

‘Lovino,’ said Antonio quietly, green eyes creasing at the corners, ‘I’d rather you drive me along the worst fucking roads in Italy, than pack onto a train with hundreds of other people.’ 

Lovino had sighed and considered the other options, before his friends had called upstairs to announce dinner. 

So that was how they found themselves, several days later and a little worse for wear, travelling down the coast of Sicily, and through the centre of it, splitting it in two. Lovino had friends here - he had some kind of ‘friend’ everywhere, Antonio would always proclaim proudly to anyone who would listen. They’d all told him the most tranquil, peaceful place he could go to, where there’d be none of the usual tourists (and Lovino wasn’t sure how the end of the war, ravaging Italy, and tourism still stuck together). 

Antonio had breathed in his ear while he read travel booklets and ‘ _ Histories of- _ ’ to him about Manfria, a tiny village to the very South of Sicily. 

‘Want to take me somewhere you can keep me to yourself, huh?’ Antonio had teased, a tone that always came so easily to him, one that was always awkward on Lovino’s own lips.

_ ‘No _ ,’ Lovino had replied, quick and biting, because what Antonio had said was true and he surely knew this. 

It wasn’t just to keep Antonio to himself, although it might be a large portion of his reasoning, it was the clear pictures of the sea, the small village where no one would bother two men staying in some little villa together. It meant peace, and privacy, and yes, Antonio. _His._

Lovino rarely took time away from home, there was always one thing or another keeping him from doing so. But Feli had promised him things would be alright,  _ truly, Lovi _ , and that he would make sure to tend to the chickens they had in the communal backyard, the Nonnas who doted over Antonio would look after their vegetables and Antonio’s rose bushes, and Roma would look after himself -  _ allegedly _ . 

At one point Lovino didn’t even care anymore, hell to his chickens and the rose bushes and to the vegetables and to Roma, who was well enough on his own, thank you. Lovino decides that at one time or another in one's life, you must begin to live for yourself. And when Lovino had reached that conclusion, he lifts Antonio’s hand from his chest, having crept underneath his linen shirt, and kisses his knuckles, the cool metal of the gold ring there.

‘I’m taking us away,’ he had announced, and Antonio, for once, had not said a thing, no teasing, no jokes or snarky looks, he had just nodded.

‘Where to?’ 

Manfria was exactly how he’d imagined - hoped. It was small and dusty from the heat, the beaches were broad swathes of white sun bleached pebbles and the sea stretched on for miles, until Tunisia, until Spain, until Greece. 

When they’d finally gotten out of the car - Lovino’s ass aching and his shoulder bunched together to prepare for the bumpy roads - they were dirty and sweaty and tired. But Antonio accepted Lovino’s help in getting out of the car, and stood, silently, looking out to the sea, breeze ruffling his dark curled hair. 

‘Let’s go for a swim,’ he’d said, eyes trained on the deep blue waves, and Lovino could not refuse him. 

The water laps at them like a soothing tonic, when they’re both submerged they breathe a sigh of relief in tandem, as if the water can wash away the previous three days of travel. Lovino decides he’s made a good decision when Antonio steps towards him and licks the salt from his lips, before dipping down and properly kissing him. He congratulates himself on picking such a perfect place for this, apart from the rest of the world, the only living things close to them are goats munching dried grass, their bells making music on the hillside. 

‘Do you like it?’ Lovino finds himself asking, never one to admit he wants the praise.

‘I love it,’ whispers Antonio ardently, forehead knocking against Lovino’s. Lovino lets his hands trail up Antonio’s body slowly, then goes to push back their tangled curls between their heads. 

They get out of the water slowly and sit in the path of the dying sun on their small beach. Their skin dries and salt catches against the hair on Lovino’s arms and legs, later Antonio will comment that he tastes like he’s about to go on the barbeque. 

They luckily made a stop in the bigger town of Butera on the way, wandering around the small hilltop town quickly to get back to Antonio in the car who had finally acknowledged some of his limitations and gone to sit down. Lovino had fussed then and wished they’d never come. He had no interest in going anywhere that Antonio couldn’t be, where his breath shook and caught a little as they made their way slowly up the hill. He’d commented that they should go back and view the commune one day, have a coffee in the palazzo. Lovino nodded but didn’t think he’d bring it up again. 

Lovino had picked up groceries then, just essential little things along with the supplies they’d bundled clumsily into the back of the car. Tomatoes that were likely grown in some local’s back garden, and bread, and butter, and red wine vinegar. And wine. 

Lovino goes to rustle up something quickly in the kitchen, setting Antonio up facing the open french doors to cool down, nestled in the sofa. He doesn’t know whether it’s the fresh air or the fatigue sitting in his bones from the journey or simply the love he feels brimming over as always, but he stalls a little at the entrance to the kitchen, and goes to lay a kiss chastely on Antonio’s temple. 

Antonio closes his eyes and hums, stretches his hand up to keep Lovino there. Antonio reaches up to entwine their hands, skin tanned from the summer sun, Antonio’s a little darker than his own from work in the garden. This time it is Antonio who pulls Lovino’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss there, on a ring Lovino had huffed and puffed about picking himself. Antonio hadn’t cared,  _ as long as it’s mine, _ he’d said. 

Lovino brings two bowls to the sofa and flings a white tea towel over his shoulder, if it was a holiday then there was no need to sit at the table then, was there? He puts down their bowls of food and smiles a little at Antonio’s instant murmurs of approval while he goes and retrieves their wine. 

They clink their glasses together and the look Antonio casts at him makes his stomach fizz, his chest light and restless. He thinks to check whether the villa has any spare sheets, later. 

They talk pleasantly about the journey, Antonio excitedly lists off a few of the places nearby they could visit, while Lovino plans on how to keep him here, just for himself, just for a few days. He’d also booked to stay in Palermo on their way back for a few days, to allow them both a slice of culture and the busy crush of a city that would make them relieved to be back in their small town in Tuscany. 

They eat well, cutlery clinking against bowls, and Antonio pushes his feet into Lovino’s lap. Lovino raises up his bowl to allow for it, and resolutely ignores when Antonio begins to knead at his inner thigh. 

The wine sloshes around pleasantly in the depths of their bellies, warming them. As Lovino goes to put away the dirty dishes Antonio huddles against his back, mumbling in his ear  _ can’t you do them later? _

Lovino does the dishes as Antonio is distracted momentarily by some sweet thing he’d found in the depths of their cupboards, soft panettone pressed into his hands by one of his friends in Naples. When they’d done it he had imagined feeding it to Antonio himself, maybe in bed or on the sofa or in the bath that they would share together. 

Their glasses of wine leave rings on the coasters by the coffee table and they become increasingly amorous as the night continues. Lovino finds himself almost in Antonio’s lap, his slightly smaller frame held between Antonio’s thighs. Sometimes it’s nice to feel like this, kept safe and in the cocoon of Antonio’s arm, but he won’t tell him that.

‘You make me feel so safe,’  _ Fuck _ .

Antonio has the creases by the side of his eyes again, his nose burrows deep into Lovino’s curls. His reply rumbles through Lovino, ‘I’ll always keep you safe,’ he promises, and Lovino knows, with a pain in his chest and an ever present fear, that this much is true. 

The wine is working its magic, or indeed, it’s mayhem, ‘Let me have you to myself for… for a few days,’ Lovino slurs into Antonio’s chest which wobbles as he laughs silently, ‘You owe me that as much!’ he comments grumpily as he kisses against Antonio’s neck. 

‘Ahhh,  _ mi corazón, _ you mustn't speak like that, or I’ll be in real trouble,’ Antonio chuckles again as Lovino buries his head against Antonio’s neck, hiding from the world. 

They do have spare sheets, Lovino finds, and even better, there’s a small selection of shops by the port where they can purchase more, as well as Mustazzola, Cuccidati and Biscotti Regina all of which make Antonio taste of almonds and soft citrus, and leaves his lips vaguely dusted in powdered sugar. 

They spend the first week almost attached at the hip, hands in shirts and cheeks pressed against chests, Antonio is always keen to grant Lovino’s wishes, even more so when they’re pressed against his throat and said ever so carefully, as if he couldn’t get them out without a sip of wine. They only venture outside their villa once food is running terribly low, when burn from stubble itches at thighs and necks and chests, where the two of them are so relaxed, washed by the warm sea and cooled by the breeze, that they wobble into town and leave swiftly to go back to their own secret haven. 

They can’t escape all the trappings of their old life however, there are still the pills and medicine bottles lining the counter in the bathroom - and Lovino still wakes, eyes bleary, and prepares them carefully, all lined up in a row with cordial to chase them. He rubs his hands up Antonio’s chest when he’s finished, staring at the mess of scar tissue there and at his side. Sometimes they huddle there closely for a while, the bells of nearby cattle and goats the only sound in their Sicilian haven. The sun not even up to bother them yet, not quite. 

‘I wish I didn’t have to-’ Antonio stops short, frowning and biting his lip, an expression strictly forbidden by Lovino, who paws at Antonio’s chest.

‘Hush, don’t- it’s alright, it’s all okay, Toño,’ he mumbles desperately, going to grasp at Antonio’s mussed curls and guiding his head into Lovino’s neck. Their slight height difference apparent here, ‘It’s alright.’

There were days when he didn’t believe him, when Antonio thought that Lovino could never know, could never make it better again, but here they are, white sheets and the sea breeze, sweet biscuits and kisses whenever he wants. It’s a damn sight better than it ever was before. 

Antonio rubs his nose against Lovino’s neck, grounding him to the only thing he might call home nowadays, he doesn’t say anything. And if their day is a little less carefree, if Lovino’s hand grasps his own more tightly, when Antonio suggests a walk to the village and Lovino looks almost wounded, he does not look any further into it. When Lovino fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, laid open and stark white against Antonio’s dark skin, he does not ask why. This little routine especially is a favouite of his, something good coming from something bad. Lovino, his little miracle, changing the worst of his life into sips of honey. 

He knows that while at times it is hard for Lovino to answer when Antonio whispers so easily, ‘ _ I love you _ ,’ it is for good reason. For Antonio would struggle at this, the mess of care and worry that Lovino sits proudly amongst. It would be impossible not to notice how meticulously Lovino had prepared their holiday, with only places that Antonio could easily go - their rushed trip to Butera, something that had obviously plagued Lovino more than him. He had scolded himself inwardly in the car, Antonio knew he had, his knuckles white against the steering wheel and silence heavy. It would be impossible to notice how lovingly Lovino prepared his meals, with foods good for his heart. 

Most of all it is obvious when he thinks Antonio is sleeping, his breath evened out and the light of the moon illuminating them both under the thin sheets. Then, his hand will make it’s way up his chest - a well worn path by now - and Antonio feels as he measures his breath, the rate of his heart. Something he’d only do when Antonio was sick. It doesn’t make him feel sick now, just loved. The sigh after a few moments is proof enough for him, how Lovino will allow himself to settle then, against his side, slightly under the place where his arm once was. Lovino cared, and wasn’t that better than three words sometimes? It often was. 

On their last night in the villa, after Lovino has mostly packed up the car and comes to snuggle into Antonio’s side, affection coming easily to him now - whether from the holiday or from the desperate thought of them going home, he isn’t sure - they eat outside, sand finding its way into the salad and flies trying to attack the meat, but it’s perfect. 

As they sit together, close, as always, bellies and hearts full, Antonio speaks, ‘I wonder how far Spain is from here,’ he ponders quietly. Lovino makes a contemplative sound by his side and looks up at him.

‘Do you miss it?’ he asks, knowing the answer.

‘Yes,’ he replies, an easy answer but not one that conveys the pain of never being able to return to one's homeland, hear your mothertongue spoken freely amongst its people, to smell magdalenas from every bakery in the street. Nothing can carry that kind of ache. 

Antonio laughs and tries to roll the feeling off his shoulders, ‘Should I try and swim there?’ he says, for Lovino’s benefit more than anything, not wanting to make himself laugh but wanting more than anything for Lovino to not hold the burden of worrying that Antonio is not okay, that he might ever  _ want _ for more than this - which isn’t true. He wants Lovino more, would turn his back on his country -  _ hadn’t he?  _ \- for Lovino, as easy as that, but it’s more that he wishes to share it, another piece of his heart, with the man who holds it. Show him where he grew up, where he disappeared to, show him friends and family and the places that he loves so Lovino can love them too. To share your home with a loved one is something special, it says  _ see me, do you understand? _

All of the muddled feelings - love for Lovino and pain for his homeland - blur and dissolve away when Lovino presses his lips to Antonio’s. When his smaller hand comes to rest on his chest, tangle in the hair there. 

‘I’d follow you anywhere,’ Lovino says, blush high on his cheeks and face defensive as if ready for a rejection of words that cost him so much to dredge up his throat.

‘Then I have the responsibility to keep you from walking into a firing squad, my love,’ answers Antonio, words slurring together with too much love, honey dripping from his tongue in rivers, ‘If you’ll follow me, then I must take great care,’ he holds Lovino to him, the two of them close to trembling, ‘It’s awfully inconvenient when your heart walks independent from your body, hm? So you must stay close.’ 

Lovino snorts a little to cover up the shine covering his eyes, ‘ _ Old fool, _ ’ he mumbles, while Antonio lays kisses all along the top of his head.

It was the perfect holiday.


End file.
